


The Perfect Cup of Coffee

by WhimsicalEthnographies



Series: The Greatest Game [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: HLV fix-it, John's Inner Monologue, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Post-His Last Vow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-25
Updated: 2014-06-25
Packaged: 2018-02-06 03:08:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1842040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhimsicalEthnographies/pseuds/WhimsicalEthnographies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is back at 221B Baker Street, and making the coffee causes him to ruminate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Perfect Cup of Coffee

**Author's Note:**

  * For [allonsys_girl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsys_girl/gifts).



> A huge thank you to anyone who has ever written a meta or a fix-it or a headcanon referenced in this. There are too many to list or even possibly remember.
> 
> And a special thank you to allonsys_girl (http://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsys_girl/pseuds/allonsys_girl) who posted who Sherlock and John make the perfect cup of coffee. Based on this (http://anigrrrl2.tumblr.com/post/89160501301/even-the-most-seemingly-meaningless-details-about)
> 
> "Even the most seemingly meaningless details about John and Sherlock are completely complimentary. Sherlock takes his coffee black with two sugars, and John takes his with milk and no sugar. Together, they make the perfect cup of coffee.  
> I think Mofftiss squeeed a bit when they wrote that. They ship it so hard. "
> 
> Please be kind. This is my first story in almost a year of no-stories. I'm so rusty. :)

John stares down at the cups of coffee on the counter, the fact that he had made them purely on autopilot slapping him in the face. One black with two sugars, one with just a splash of milk.

He had forever been asking Mary how she liked her coffee. He never remembered.

John rubs his tired eyes. It seems like a lifetime ago. It wasn’t, really. The other foot had dropped just the day before. He’d been back in Baker Street for less than twelve hours. But it was over, and he didn’t want to think about it.

One black with two sugars, one with just a splash of milk.

He’s relieved. He shouldn’t be, but he is. It had been almost eight months since Mary had put a bullet in his best friend, eight months since she had literally ripped his heart out.   Eight months of pretending, running the lie that would keep him and Sherlock and everyone they cared about safe.

John chuckles darkly to himself. What had she honestly expected would happen at the end of the road? What was she going to do, buy a baby?!? At least he had known about that deception for some time. Sherlock—and Mycroft, damn him—had seen to that. John’s smile turns softer as he remembers Sherlock’s indignation on his behalf when that little jewel had been uncovered.   Frankly, it had been a small indiscretion in the pile of depravity that was his wife.

Ex-wife. Well, never-wife. Mary Morstan never existed. He’s blurry on the details, but Mycroft had droned something about false pretenses and some such and he was free of that mess.  

Eight fucking months. Eight months of games and lies and danger. And eight months of fear. Fear, specifically, of losing Sherlock. His best friend. His everything. His other half. Eight months since he realized the depth of his feeling for that brilliant, ridiculous mess of a man, and eight months of the crushing knowledge that he had made the worst mistake of his life by marrying that woman. He should have known, been suspicious of a random woman commenting on his blog defending Sherlock after, after _then_. If he had been in his right mind, if Sherlock had been by his side, he would have been instantly wary.

John blinks down at the counter. One black with two sugars, one with just a splash of milk.

Of course, now he realizes that he wouldn’t have just been suspicious. He wouldn’t have bothered. He wouldn’t have needed to pursue something to fill an aching, gaping wound in his chest. A Sherlock-shaped hole. But he’s free of that now. They could move forward.

There’s still trouble. Everything is still, objectively, a mess. Moriarty is still a problem, Mycroft insisted. The disposal of his most trusted assassin would only make him angry. _We shook a hornet’s nest, Dr. Watson._

And of course, there’s still the slight problem of him being hopelessly in love with his best friend-slash-sometimes flatmate. John isn’t nervous about that though. It could actually be rather fun, drawing Sherlock’s feelings to the surface. He was nothing if not confusing, contradiction after contradiction, but John had seen it. Flashes only, but he knew Sherlock better than anyone. Flashes that wove and blended together to make the perfect picture of a man in love. John still doesn’t know what Sherlock *is* if anything, or if it even matters at all. But he is sure Sherlock reciprocates. Yes, it could be quite an amusing game, pursuing the skittish Sherlock.   They would figure it out, they always do. John isn’t worried.

This is the miracle he asked for. He’s back home, with Sherlock, and he isn’t leaving. He’s game for anything that keeps him with his Sherlock.

John smiles down at the cups of coffee. One black with two sugars, one with just a splash of milk. Warmth spreads in his chest as he hears the bathroom door open, sees Sherlock walk naked as the day he was born to his room. Like nothing had ever changed.

“Coffee, John?” Sherlock calls before he shuts his bedroom door.

“On the table.” John picks up both cups. One black with two sugars, one with just a splash of milk. He places Sherlock’s cup next to his microscope on the table. As he walks to his worn armchair, he can’t help but realize that combined, their individual preferences make the perfect cup of coffee. Well, for ordinary people. But this is nothing short of extraordinary.

John sits and picks up the paper to read.


End file.
